Booze. That's why. No wait. That's when they DO actually carry bags. When they've got a gallon of the good stuff in their systems. My fella is not a bag man, there are very few exceptions in our history together when he actually broke this rule. Let me tell you about it, and yes, liquor is the key ingredient in both stories.
I'm going to start with my favourite bag story with Boyfriend. In this one, I don't mean a bag as in a purse, I refer instead to a bad of produce. This was way back when...I'm a touch foggy if it was when we were moved in together already or...no, we weren't living together because we were at the grocery store near his old apartment. Right. I was in town for a visit and we went somewhere...though I'm not sure where to be frank with you...anyhow, wherever this magical, mystery place was, Boyfriend and I did our share of elbow lifts. That makes sense how we made it to the grocery store. It was walking distance, because dang if we had enough sobriety between the two of us to make it there any other way. Cab drivers on duty that night: you're welcome for not calling for a ride. Boyfriend made some sort of comment about it being stumbling distance, as Boyfriend will always helpfully point out when one has sipped beyond one's capacity. Righto. We stumbled into the small grocery store and ambled around the produce section. I can't remember what else we bought, but I do remember the clear plastic bag that we loaded up with those little golden nugget potatoes. That's what they're called, right? Golden nugget potatoes? It sounds right to me. You know, the wee ones that are yellowy-lookin'. Somehow we managed to get enough wits about us to split up and search out different items and reconvene at the checkout. Or something like that. We separated for some reason. Those elbow lifts will impair your memory every time. I grabbed something that we needed, as did he, and I saw him walking to the checkout line and I was several feet behind him. The joy of inebriated Boyfriend is how free he lets himself become. He swung that bag of potatoes to and fro while he skipped along and hummed "Singin' in the Rain" to himself. Well, two parts of that sentence aren't true. Based on what happens next, I'm sure you'll figure out which of the three did happen. If anything else, you've got a 33.3333333333andsoforth% chance of guessing right. Suspense over now, I'll tell you what happened. Well, wouldn't you know, as he made it to the line-up at the cashier, he swung forth, with gusto, a sack of golden nugget potatoes that collided with the rump of an elderly asian woman. Bad time to be bending over to sort through your basket dear lady...well bad time for you. I thought it was a hoot. She did not. She was, and I'm guessing here, at a loss of words of what to say to the strange man whose potatoes collided with great inertia into her back door. For the record, that is not a nasty euphemism. Get your mind out of the gutter. She just turned around stunned while Boyfriend managed a giggly apology and looked rather surprised himself. Boyfriends do not carry bags, he didn't know what he was doing.
Boyfriend with a bag story numero deux:
This one is about a purse. Sort of. Well, yeah, it is. It has a purse in it anyways. It's the story about the first and only time Boyfriend has ever held my purse in public. Yes. It's definitely about a purse. That's settled, onward we go. I should preface this with a very important fact: Dudes do not like carrying a woman's purse. Boyfriend doesn't even go near mine when we're at home. Even if I tell him to grab something from it, at best he will snatch it and hurriedly toss it at me in a matter of milliseconds so I can retrieve whatever I said he could grab. Seems to me like he thinks coming in contact with it gives him a dose of estrogen that seeps in through his fingertips. Don't worry Boyfriend, it's not catching. I think you have to pay extra for the purses that give you that extra feminine boost on contact, they spray it with testosterone eliminator I'm pretty sure. Makes your voice go up a few octaves and your breasts become enhanced with prolonged exposure. Everybody knows it's a scientific fact. The main point I'm driving home here is: if it looks like a purse and it feels like a purse, it's meant only for a woman in spite of it being called an Indiana Jones exploration satchel. No dudes allowed. So the story. It was the eve of my twenty-fifth birthday. Some may say that's young, but to those people I say you're all liars. Everyone knows you pass your prime at twenty-two. For those of you that haven't reached twenty-two, go away. I don't need you kids around making me feel like a geezer, have the courtesy to bring a fake I.D. that says you're at least twenty-seven and you can hang out with us grandparents. Seriously. Go away. Many thanks. Well, when one reaches the quarter-century milestone, rather than stay home and cry over wasted youth, one goes out and...indulges...in tequila-based drinks and shooters. Don't judge! It was one's birthday and she was having a hard time with it. Let one placate oneself however she likes. Anyways, many, many, many margaritas later this girl and Boyfriend had been dropped off at the bus loop near their house because you never ever EVER drink and drive. That's what losers do. As much as one looks like a loser after many, many, many margaritas you know she is not a true loser because she and her amigos get home safe every time. Seriously, don't be a loser because I'll find you and give you a couple raccoon eyes as a warning. It's for your own good. I don't like hitting people...without a few practice swings first. Concern for safety is now over, let's resume. Boyfriend and I, rather than wait for a connecting bus that will take us one block from our infant-sized apartment decide to walk the six blocks home. C'mon, it's stumbling distance as a certain somebody likely reminded me at the time, not that memory serves me best that eve. Yes, it seems like a reasonable idea, but after many, many, many margaritas things in the stomach region aren't a-so a-happy. The optimistic way of saying this is: I got to revisit my dinner, though it wasn't as delicious as the reverse of how it ended up in my belly. You know what I'm sayin', I left the drunkard's version of a Hansel and Gretel trail from the bus loop to my apartment. I'm sorry to all of you people and your yards. For the record I was dealing with becoming officially old. And also for the record, one doesn't bounce back at twenty-five the way one does at twenty-four. The good news was, Boyfriend carried my purse for like two of those blocks...he wasn't walking anywhere near me and it was like two or three a.m., but the point is he carried my purse. Good Boyfriend. All it takes is some adult bevvies and Boyfriend holds that thing like a pro. In hindsight he may have referred to it as his Indiana Jones exploration satchel. If Indiana Jones likes purple.
This, dear sirs and madams, is why Boyfriend doesn't usually carry bags. He's not usually that drunk.
Time for tea,
K
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